


Darkly

by retts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Background - Freeform, M/M, Pensieves, author: his spectacles, circa 2009, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:48:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dumbledore's posture is a little bent these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkly

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting in all its original glory from ff.net. 
> 
> I actually rather like this one. I'm fascinated by Dumbledore's youth and his friendship with Grindelwald.

 

 

Dumbledore's posture is a little bent these days. It may be old age, or the weight of a hundred worlds on his shoulders, but Dumbledore still has that twinkle in his eyes. Reliable, comforting even.

Now, however, there is nothing but solemnity behind those half-moon glasses.

The Pensieve sits on the desk and the runes drawn on its surface glints from the torchlight. Dumbledore extracts the silvery thread of memory and drops it into the receptacle. Harry bends over the Pensieve, expecting the elder wizard to do the same.

"Tonight, you will be viewing this memory alone, Harry," says Dumbledore who leans back on his chair. The lines on his face appear deeper, making him look pained, but he looks straight into Harry's eyes. "I feel I should apologize, my boy."

Harry hesitates before he tips forward and falls into the memory. He sees only the swirling at first, before an image begins to take shape. It's of a small river in the middle of a forest in the morning. A long, slim figure sits cross-legged by the edge, holding a wand lightly as a strange thread sprouts from the tip and dangles in the water. Sunlight reflects brightly off the red hair of the boy.

 _Wizarding equivalent of fishing_ , Harry thinks distantly as he gets a clear view of the boy's face. He thinks he's another Weasley but the glasses on his face and the familiar blue eyes tell differently.

 _This is Dumbledore in his youth._ Surprise makes Harry's heart thump just a tad harder. This is not a memory of something connected with Voldemort but rather a glimpse into the past of the Headmaster.

Dumbledore is whistling softly to himself, looking peaceful and young, and his shoulders slump in natural laziness. His focus is caught on the sudden tug on his wand and does not realize that someone watches him from the trees behind but Harry does.

It's another boy, tall and with curly blond hair loose around his broad shoulders. His eyes are dark and intense and Harry feels a shudder go through him. There is something about this boy that unsettles him. Perhaps it's the sharpness in his gaze or the commanding presence he exudes despite the fact that he cannot be any older than Harry.

"Aha!" Dumbledore exclaims triumphantly as he tosses the wriggling fish into a wooden bucket next to him. "I am sorry, my friends, but you shall be our supper tonight."

"Do you always talk to animals?" the blond calls out laughingly, announcing his presence as he lumbers toward Dumbledore. There is a grin on his face and it's stretched a little too widely as if he's enjoying something too much.

Dumbledore cranes his neck to look at the intruder curiously. "Only when I apologize for eating them."

The other boy throws his head back and laugh and Dumbledore's eyes linger on the blond's face, an answering smile on his lips.

Harry wonders what the significance of this meeting is supposed to be.

The blond sticks out his hand, eyes aglow with glee. "I am Gellert Grindelwald."

Before Harry can react, the memory shifts and a new one begins.

 _Grindelwald!_ Harry's mind exclaims, unsure of how to react to this revelation. _Dumbledore knew Grindelwald even before the war. What does this mean?_

It's a meadow, this time. A field of wild flowers as far as the eye could see. There is a lone tree in the middle and Dumbledore and Grindelwald lie across the grass under its shade. Their faces are sun-kissed, idle and content. For some reason, Harry's breath catches in his throat. They were friends.

"Wouldn't it be wonderful, Albus?" Grindelwald is murmuring, twisting the stem of a blood-red flower between his thumb and forefinger. "A world for wizards, ruled by magic, freely living out in the open. Unrestricted by the fear of Muggles realizing our existence."

Dumbledore stares up at the dancing leaves and lifts his large, smooth hand above him and lets its shadow fall across his face. "Perhaps, but we cannot predict the consequence of such a thing, Gellert. Or truthfully we can and in detail. It would be chaos."

Grindelwald snorts derisively. "Then what is the use of having our powers if we cannot use it as it should? Power, Albus, is what sets us apart from the Muggles. Even from the other wizards we are far superior and yet we conform to their idiotic rules and hinder our true potential. The powerful are meant to rule the world. Imagine, Albus," Grindelwald says in a tone that grows soft, thoughtful, alluring and Harry holds his breath despite himself. "Imagine a world where we can set things right. A world we shape from our own power, better than anything time has ever seen."

A frown settles on Dumbledore's face and yet his eyes are soft when he glances at his companion from the corner of his eye. "A world renewed, you say?"

Grindelwald sits up abruptly, crushing the flower in his grasp as he looms over Dumbledore close enough for his blond hair to nearly tickle the other boy's face. "Yes, a world where wizards no longer have to hide and Muggles will learn their place. For we are better than them, Albus, we've been given these abilities and they haven't. It's criminal if we don't use our gifts for greatness. Might as well not have them at all. Think of it, Albus, dream of it and let us make it a reality. It is not impossible for you and I."

His eyes flare with wildness and a fierce smile lights his face. Dumbledore appears mesmerized.

And Harry sees nothing more because the curtain of blond hair obscures his view.

Once more, the scene shifts.

There is a young girl and she is singing softly. She has fair auburn fair and dreamy blue eyes.

 

_In my mother's arms_

_By my father's knee_

_Her singing voice_

_O happy family_

 

Harry recognizes an old-fashioned kitchen and a parade of spoons dances on the table. She is startled when loud voices burst from the other room and the spoons quiver and fall over as the girl pokes her head through the doorway.

Grindelwald stands next to Dumbledore and Harry has never seen such an expression on the redheaded wizard's face. It is hard and angry, a look so out of place from his kindly expression. It's the look of a boy who is forced upon something he hates, a boy whose dreams are on the brink of shattering.

"Do not speak of things you do not know of, Aberforth!" Dumbledore warns the younger boy he is facing.

Aberforth gives a contemptuous laugh. "You've always resented us, Albus, ever since you realized that you had to take care of Ariana after mother's death instead of traveling, which was always your plan!"

"You're my family, I do not resent you for that, but you must understand that Gellert is my dear friend and should be shown respect."

 _His brother and sister,_ a part of Harry's mind deduces vaguely, much too caught up in the unfolding scene to give it more thought.

"A friend?" Aberforth snarls, grip tightening on his wand. "A friend who lures you with extravagant dreams at the price of forsaking your family! Tell me, Albus, how many times have you escaped your responsibilities to Ariana?"

Dumbledore's face flushes. "That is - "

"You say you want me to return to Hogwarts and leave our sister to your care and yet you've neglected her for...for that demon!"

Grindelwald, whose expression has been one of disinterest, suddenly snaps to attention. Immediately, his wand is drawn and his face is twisted in fury.

"Watch what you say, brat, for I hold no fondness for you," Grindelwald sneers and Dumbledore looks warily between them. Unnoticed, the young girl - Ariana, Harry's mind supplies - makes a soft, distressed sound.

Aberforth's eyes are full of hatred as they look on Grindelwald. He whispers a word that makes Grindelwald and Dumbledore gasp and flinch. Soon, hexes and curses are flying between them, spells brighter than anything that lights up the room and Dumbledore caught in the middle, torn between defending his brother or his friend.

In his periphery, Harry sees that Ariana is beginning to tremble and her hands fly up to cover her eyes. Spoons, forks, knives, plates begin to shudder in their places as Ariana knocks her head on the doorframe. Harry wants to go to her, to comfort her, and yet he is unable to do anything.

Then, in a voice that is mangled by so much anger and loathing that it is unrecognizable, someone shouts out a familiar curse that sends green light into the air.

Harry wants to shout, horrified, as Ariana convulses once before throwing herself into the middle of the duel. Her hair shines green briefly before her body falls to the ground.

The duel abruptly stops.

"ARIANA!"

Aberforth's cry is terrible as he cradles her limp body. Dumbledore kneels next to him, grief written over his face and when he looks over his shoulder to see Grindelwald running out the door the tears spill over his face.

As for Harry himself, a shudder has taken over his body and so many emotions battle inside himself. Shock, anger, sadness and, worse of all, pity. There is a burning behind his eyes as he begins to leave the pool of memory, not knowing how to face the aged wizard whose youthful, idealistic face is stamped into his mind, when he catches a fleeting image that makes the tears fall.

In that same meadow, under that same tree, Dumbledore pushes the blond hair behind Grindelwald's ear and their lips are touching and they are laughing and they are breathing the same air.

Harry emerges and sees Albus Dumbledore, one hundred and fifty years old, sitting on his chair and with a face so anguished, as if he was reliving the same memories as Harry watched them, that not even Fawkes' singing by his elbow brings him comfort.

Wondering for whom Dumbledore grieves, and thinking, perhaps for himself.

Harry breathes a quiet sigh.

 

 

 

_Often it is the most deserving people who cannot help loving those who destroy them._

\- Herman Hesse

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hoped you enjoyed reading :)


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